I'm working on a new zine (of course). It'll be interesting I suppose because a lot of the content is Sydney-derived and I haven't created much yet that is of San Francisco. So rather than being my 'goodbye' to Sydney zine or my 'here is San Francisco' zine it will be a confusing mess of thoughts between the two. Which is only appropriate, I think.
I just need to ask someone who has all the back issues of my zines (I didn't bring them with me): have I published the story below anywhere before except for in the student press? Is it in my prior zines? I genuinely can't remember. If it's not, it's going in my new one. I still love it.
Today is better. I sat out on the flat gravelled roof outside my window and played Tetris in the sun, then stood up and danced to the pop blaring from my laptop. I'm going out again tonight, again with no-one (had arranged to go with Slip but she has bailed). I think I might do a little better this time.
I wrote this three years ago:
In the earliest hours of the morning with the sequined and sparkling night still pumping insistently around us I found a girl between my thighs and touched her face. A smile flashed like neon on and off to show teeth then not teeth and her eyes couldn’t focus on me, they slid from me like oil on wet pavement, and she breathed laughter, deep in and heaving out. Her hands they gripped and twisted the skirt stretched out over my legs to make room for the straddling of her and it was plain: the ecstasy was strong within her.
She was beautiful and her joy hit hard, I wasn’t so close to earth myself. I couldn’t keep away from the warm silk velvet of her skin and my hands twined round her neck, stroking through her hair, up her face, down her breasts. I laughed and said:
"can we break it from here? Can we, please?"
and she turned to press her lips to the smooth curve of my upper arm as she replied to my blood and muscle:
"the revolution’s onnnn, bayby." The long growling curve of the sound in her jaw delighted me and I threw my head back in glee. The lights spun past my eyes and came to rest somewhere south. I hung suspended and spoke to the air.
"We could do it you know, we could take what we are and what we feel and we could make a revolution. It’s in the feeling, you know?" I snapped my head back up and arched my body around her, my forehead coming down to rest on hers. The draining of the blood was tidal from my brain. "The revolution is in feeling and in demanding to feel, it’s in not letting this bullshit displacement get under your skin- you know the displacement they try to shove down your throat, so you don’t feel you just imagine it and act out the lines of someone who really did feel it maybe a hundred years ago. Imagine discovering the feelings inside you and acting from them, imagine!"
The sweet smell of her skin permeated me as she fluttered her eyelashes against mine. Her hands slid around and touched the gap of skin between my clothes across my back.
"The revolution is in knowing" she said, her deep warm voice brushing against my cheeks and mouth. "It’s in seeing what you’re not supposed to see and knowing what the truth is."
"That’s so essentialist" I puzzled, brushing my nose beside hers. "There is no truth."
"There’s a better truth."
And I did.
The morning had pushed on and the stars had faded when I led her by the hand across the road. My lips ached with her biting kisses and my arms ached with holding her but the dry powdered exhaustion was warm and welcoming. We took the all-night convenience by stealth, revolutionaries masquerading as two worn-out girls just turfed from the club. We wandered the aisles, consciousness slitted against the fluorescent, critiquing this, the height of what capitalism had to offer us.
"Ugh, barbeque shapes" she complained, and we moved on.
"eighty five varieties of chocolate and nothing good" I gloomed.
In the end we paid a dollar thirty five for a tub of yoghurt and ate it huddled on the petrol-soaked cement outside. My head against her shoulder, she fed me with a spoon.
"D’you think we’re just trying to reclaim the extreme?" I asked, watching the trickle of gay humanity evicted from the club startling at the harsh reality of daylight.
"Just because we look like a niche market doesn’t mean we’re safe" she said. "We can still smash them, they’re just less likely to see us coming now."
It was a comforting thought, and I smiled.
Turned, kissed her cheek, and took her home.